Silent Consent

There is no consent between the sun and the moon but a silent agreement for one to die every day for the other to awaken. There is no consent between the sand and the waves but a mutual contract for one to beat itself upon the other till it froths at the lips. There is no consent between trees and the birds, but a quiet settling for homes to be built upon branches of branches, for notes to be strung in the veins of leaves, for a secret orchestra to be tucked within the gallows of the forest.

There is no consent necessary, simply the quiet understanding that neither would hurt the other. 

There is no consent between the two stargazers sitting on the bench, simply comfort in the way their bodies collided and offered warmth amidst the chilly air around them. 

There is no consent between the two young souls weaving galaxies between their lips, simply losing breaths as they fall into each other as much as they were falling into the sky.

There was no consent between us, simply resting, closer, closer. Yearning but shy, gently glowing connections that anyone who were to observe us from the galaxies above would've thought we were constellations in the night.